


In the Sepulcher by the Sea

by OneFrustratedWriterPerson



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneFrustratedWriterPerson/pseuds/OneFrustratedWriterPerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end though, as her chest finally gives in, she thinks if there was one last thing she could say, anything at all, it wouldn’t be that she wasn’t afraid—hell, she was fucking terrified—rather, it would be her telling them that if tazing Thor was what gave her this family in the first place, then she would gladly taze him again—just to be sure—and maybe hit him with the van like Jane did. Twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For a moment, all she could hear was the persistent ringing in her ears—the type of high-pitched noise you hear when faced with absolute silence. The herculean effort it took to open her eyes, even if it were only a few millimeters, proved to be almost too much, but she had powered through it (like the stubborn person she was), and when she did, streams upon streams of red clouded her vision. Blood, she realized, as the rusty taste of it swirled in her mouth. Every short breath sent sharp jolts of pain up and down her spine. Her erratic heartbeat quickened as she discovered her inability to move anything else.

 

One laborious breath turned to twelve, and before she had the strength to do something, she felt her lungs begin to collapse under all stress and trauma. She was about to close her eyes—permanently this time—when she caught glimpses of a shadow moving across her blurred view. Strong callused hands moved to cradle the sides of her face, as deep tones seeped through her prolonged deafness.

 

“ _—cy. Darce._ I need you to stay awake for me, ok? Please. I’ll get you out of here. Just hang on.” The miniscule sway in her sight, coupled with the gentle press of his hands against her side, were the only things that let her know that she was being carried away. The pain was virtually gone now—she may not be the sort of genius that sought out Einstein-Rosen bridges, but she knew enough to know that it was not good thing. Not good at all.

 

“I’ve got her. Does everyone copy? I’ve got her. She’s alive, but unresponsive. And she’s lost too much blood. Bruce—yes. I’ll get her there in five. Cap, someone needs to sweep the basement. What they did to her down there—I saw it. It wasn’t good.”

 

She must’ve done or said something, because all of a sudden, they—he started running as if the devil was hot on his heels, muttering silent curses and death threats to the ones who put her dying in his arms.

 

“ _Darcy_ , I need you to focus on the sound of my voice. Can you do that for me? We’re almost there.” He gasped in between measured breaths. It pained her to hear him so desperate and scared.

 

 _Well, I can’t hear anything else BUT your voice, Barton_ , she wanted to snark back—as if being her old, torture-virgin, awesome self could somehow quell his worries—instead, her eyes snap shut, the act too strenuous for her abused body, and she’s left praying that this wouldn’t be the last time she sees any of them.

 

It’s interesting, she thinks, that even as she found herself teetering at the very brink of death, she could still hear the exact moment when the rest of the team saw them.

 

“Holy shit.” That came from Tony, she spent too much time in the labs to think otherwise.

 

“I need her in the O.R. _now_ —Tony, let them know we’re coming.” Bruce’s sharp commands weren’t what she had come to expect from the doctor; Hulk sure, but never Bruce. Never the calm, considerate man who brought her ice cream on a bad day.

 

The resounding crackle of thunder lets her know that Thor was nearby, obviously distressed. She might’ve been inclined to given them a sign, a small twitch of her finger, an infinitesimal eye roll—anything just to let them know that she was still alive (if only for that moment), but it seems her body had different plans. Their voices begin to muddle and dim, as if she was suddenly submerged in water, and she thinks that this could be it. Her death. It’s funny how she hadn’t really thought about it until a week ago, despite facing metal destroyers and evil elfish thingies in the past years—she tazed Thor for fuck’s sake—but it is what it is she recognizes, both bitter and somewhat resigned.

 

In the end though, as her chest finally gives in, she thinks if there was one last thing she could say, anything at all, it wouldn’t be that she wasn’t afraid—hell, she was fucking _terrified_ —rather, it would be her telling them that if tazing Thor was what gave her this family in the first place, then she would gladly taze him again—just to be sure—and maybe hit him with the van like Jane did. Twice.

 

It doesn’t surprise her that the last thing she hears is Clint ordering people to, quite piercingly, _get the fuck out of the way_.


	2. Chapter 2

Have you ever marveled at how a single word can mean so many things? Multiplicity. Added complexity. Instances wherein dichotomies exist in weird harmony. The fragile balance of light and dark, of good and evil, of clashing emotions, all captured in a solitary thought. 

 

Have you ever been afraid of how a single word can mean so much more?   

 

* * *

 Shock

/SHäk/

_noun_

1.

a sudden or violent disturbance or commotion:

_the shock of battle._

2.

a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities:

_the kidnapping was a shock to her sense of security._

 

Jane couldn’t make sense of what was happening. They found her. She was supposed to be happy, ecstatic even, right? _I am happy._ She argues, trying to find a sense of certainty, of anything, really, that could make her believe everything was going to be alright. Maria had been the one to convey the news the very moment word from the team came in. Pepper had abruptly sat down in relief, muttering _thank yous_ again and again like some sort of mantra. She, on the other hand, stood as stoic as one can be, uncomprehending, rendered motionless by the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. 

 

“Is she…how—” Pepper swallows through the lump in her throat, “is she okay?”. Her quiet inquiry snaps Jane’s attention to the noticeable grimness on Maria’s face. Her breath catches; her heart thundering in her ear. No. _No_ — “She’s in bad shape, but she’s stable." Maria sets a firm hand on Jane’s shoulder, as if trying to give her some of her strength. “Bruce is with her. The medical team is already waiting for them.” 

 

“How long?” Jane croaks out, her voice thin and frail from unshed tears. They _need_ to be there for her now. 

 

“They’re five minutes out.” Pepper nods minutely and presses her hands to her face, as if to collect herself. Jane briefly squeezes Maria’s hand on her shoulder before letting go, turning around to walk purposefully towards the elevator.

 

“Jane?” Pepper’s worried voice carries to her and she stops, letting out a shaky breath as she does so.  

 

“I’m gonna wait for them in the hangar.” She surprises herself with the firmness of her voice, the stubbornness in it—no doubt something she got from Darcy.

 

“Jane,” concern leaks into Maria’s voice, “she’s going straight to medical. I don’t know if we should—“ 

 

“I’m gonna welcome her home.” No one says anything. No one could.

 

“I owe…I owe her at least that much after—“ _everything._ She struggles, and wonders, for the first time, if she could be the person Darcy needed, “I _want_ to welcome her home.”

 

Pepper goes to her then, Maria following quietly behind; she wraps her arms around the petite woman tightly. Maria steps into the elevator, quietly communicating with the team. Jane feels Pepper gently tug her forward, one arm resting across on her shoulders. 

 

“JARVIS, to the hangar, please.”

 

“Of course, Ms. Potts.” 

 

They don’t talk on their way down. They didn’t need to.

 

* * *

Shock

/SHäk/

_noun_

3.

Pathology. a collapse of circulatory function, caused by severe injury, blood loss, or disease, and characterized by pallor, sweating, weak pulse, and very low blood pressure.

 

The Quinjet flies into view a few minutes later. The skies go darker each second; and for a moment, Jane lets herself worry about Thor. Pepper just wishes she was right by Tony’s side.

 

The three of them stand in bittersweet anticipation, hoping to god the worst was over; although Jane doubts there could be anything more horrible than when JARVIS told her that Darcy was taken by some unknown fascist group. She vaguely remembers dropping something when she understood what JARVIS meant (her tablet, maybe?); barely remembers how fast Steve snaps into Captain America, how both Natasha’s and Clint’s eyes went cold and eerily blank; Tony shouting as he scrambles to a computer. She remembers Bruce hunching over the kitchen counter, fingers digging into the granite. She almost couldn’t remember how she crumbled into Thor’s arms, praying this was some sort of random prank, letting herself imagine that Darcy was just hiding behind some wall to throw water bombs at Clint. 

 

_The universe couldn’t possibly be that cruel,_ she reasons. Not to people like her best friend. Not to people who has done nothing to deserve it. _She’s alright. She will be._

 

As soon as the plane lands, a dozen or so doctors and nurses rush to the rear of the plane, ready to jump in to action as soon as its doors open—what greets them, however, was Clint Barton’s voice unlike anything they’ve ever heard.

 

What follows is not something any of them would like to live through again.

 

_“GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY!”_

 

“She’s lost too much blood! We need to—”

 

“The trauma surgeons—”

 

“ _Jesus Christ—”_

 

“ _MOVE!”_

 

_“_ Did you see what happened?”

 

“ _Jemma,_ tell them to get as much O negative as they can.” 

 

“—before she goes into—” 

 

“—are waiting at the O.R, Dr. Banner”

 

“I need everything you can tell me. _Anything.”_

 

“ _Shit._ Her BP’s crashing. Get me—”

 

Jane sees her best friend covered in blood, struggling to stay alive, as they rush her to the med bay.  

 

She stood there as they passed, with Pepper crying silently by her side, and can’t help but think—can’t help but _hate_ the universe for proving her wrong.

 

* * *

Shock

/SHäk/

_noun_

4.

the physiological effect produced by the passage of an electric current through the body.

 

Bruce sets down the two paddles gingerly on the table; his chest heaving with exertion and overwhelming relief. He places a shaky hand on her wrist and lets the strengthening pulse assure him, letting himself know that he didn’t fail—not when it mattered. 

 

He hears Jemma’s own sob of unrepressed happiness in the background, dull and distant as he continues to count the beats of her now pumping heart (despite the obnoxious sound of the heart monitor telling them the same thing). 

 

He surprises himself by crying. And then laughing. The rest cry and laugh along with him. He feels the Hulk roaring with joy, thrumming with action, yet remains steadfast, choosing instead to share this moment with him. It was one of the rare moments he realizes his true connection with the other guy. He doubts anyone but Darcy could ever make him see it this way.

 

He sends Jemma to inform the team, and can’t help but cry/laugh some more as sounds of gratitude and relief filter through the swinging doors. 

 

Surrounded by the group of stubborn people who love her most, Darcy Lewis lives.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support!!! love you, guys.  
> I'm trying out something new for this part. Let me know what you think :D  
> Note: definitions were taken from the Merriam-Webster online dictionary  
> Again, regular updates and hardcore proofreading might take some time as med school is one hell of a slave driver.
> 
> PS. Marvel owns everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.”  
> ― Pablo Neruda

Everyone takes four to six-hour shifts, each hour seemingly longer than the one before, fervently watching the weak but noticeable rise and fall of her chest. She has yet to gather enough strength to open her eyes, but she knows they’re there, guarding her the way they had failed to do so the week prior—or so they thought. She would have to sit all of them down and convince them that it wasn’t—a hopeless effort for sure, as they were likely to blame themselves regardless, but she had to try—that the psycho maniacs who abducted her on her way to get her favorite hotdog were guilty of the whole thing (which led to her seriously reconsidering her life choices). She groaned internally. _No way are they letting me out alone. Ever._  

 

Despite all these, she realizes that if there was one thing she was thankful for, aside from being alive (however arguable that term is), it’s that the gruesome memories she has tried so hard to suppress ever since she gained awareness remained undisturbed in her subconscious. 

 

And so she remained blissfully innocent from the terrors in the dark, her mind’s way, she guesses, of making certain she heals. 

 

* * *

 

But it was only a matter of time before they find a way to leach into her dreams. And when they do, she is left feeling trapped in her own unmoving body, screaming and clawing for it to end, to wake up and know, in her heart, that she’s safe. Short bouts of unconsciousness serve as a refuge from the unwavering onslaught of brutal images and sensations—of needles piercing her skin, of wires attached to her body, of bloody fists and paddles, and _oh god_ , of the metal chair they forced her into. There was much pain. And she was reliving every second of it.

 

(She would like to formally put it on record that fate, or whatever it was that put her there, was one cold-hearted bitch.)

 

* * *

 

After what seemed like an eternity, she breaks through the dark haze of her mind.

 

After four days of what ifs and maybes, Darcy Lewis finally opens her eyes. 

 

* * *

 

When she does, there weren’t any big ‘welcome back’ cheers, of which she is, she discovers, unbelievably grateful—she doesn’t think she could handle anything happy for a while—but there was, instead, one Tony Stark sitting quietly by her bed, fuzzy from her poor eyesight. He didn’t seem to notice her new development at first, as his attention so focused on what she assumes to be prototypes of some invention—she would later find out that they were designs for subcutaneous trackers which were virtually undetectable—but when she tries to squeak out his name, quite feebly she might add (it ended up being more of a choking sound if she was to be honest), his eyes snap to hers, and he is left gaping for a few seconds, as his tablet sloppily falls to the floor in a muted _thunk._ Obviously, he wasn’t expecting her to wake up when she did, but she would gladly take what she could get, as being awake was so much better than being trapped in her nightmares. Just then, Tony hoists himself swiftly off his chair. 

 

“ _Darcy!_ ” his hands flail around as if he doesn’t know what to do to them. “ _Thank god_. You had us worried for a while there, kid.” She tries to assure him, but the dryness in her throat prevents her from doing so. He sees this, and immediately jumps to retrieve ice chips from the side of the bed. He feeds her a couple, smiling softly as he sees the appreciation in her eyes. While she savored the cool water swirling in her mouth, Tony holds up her glasses—new ones from the looks of it (she doesn’t like to think of what happened to her old pair). 

 

“You can’t wear them too long or Coulson will have my head, but it beats being blind so I thought you might want them…” She nods in assent, and though it takes her some time to adjust her vision, it’s that little movement that unforgivably sends sharp jolts of pain to her head. She moans. Panic clouds Tony’s eyes, and before she could reassure him, his phone is already pressed against his ear.

 

“Bruce, I need you down here. She’s awake.” Without pausing, he stuffs it back into his pocket and quickly scans her injuries. “He’ll be here in a minute, two tops. Do you need anything?” She croaks a flimsy _no_ in response, as she checks her own body for the first time since she was rescued. The white casts securing her arms shouldn’t have worried or affected her as much as they did, but as flashes of red escape from behind her eyes, she feels her hands start to tremble in fear; tears make their way down her cheeks in rapid succession; her breath shortens and hitches in erratic intervals; her mind beginning to feel a certain sense of light-headedness. Tony curses silently.

 

“ _Darcy_ , _you’re okay_.” It was clear that he was hesitant to touch her, partly in dread of triggering her further. “I’m not good at this, but you have to listen to me. What they did to you, it’s _never_ going to happen again. I promise. _Kid, you’re safe._ ” _Safe_ , she thinks, that was all she wanted when she was being tortured or drugged—at the time, it seemed so beyond her reach. _I wanted to be safe._ But she doesn’t know if she’d ever be, if it was still even possible for her to be, and that thought alone _terrifies_ her. 

 

“ _Darcy,_ _you’re going to be okay.”_ She longed so desperately to believe him; the problem is though, was that she _knew_ she wasn’t. The flinch she gave when Tony finally decided to rest his hand gently on her shoulder couldn’t be helped, but she did try to control the tremors running up and down her arms. If it was any consolation though, never in her wildest dreams did she envision Tony Stark _shh-ing_ at someone, let alone her, very much like an overprotective brother—it was actually quite fitting once she gave it some thought. Not that she would ever admit it to him. 

 

 “ _Darcy—“_ the door opens out-of-nowhere, and her body reflexively jerks towards the comfort and firmness of Tony’s hand. Bruce shuffles quietly into the room, looking repentant as he saw the distress in her eyes. She relaxes back into the mattress, while Tony lets out a deep sigh of relief. 

 

“It’s good to see you up, Darcy.” He stood by the foot of her bed, smiling at her with kind eyes. She returns it tiredly, as she softly half-snarks/half-rasps back, “I better have a fuck ton of ice cream waiting for me when I get home, Banner.” He beams and nods assuredly at her, then proceeds to run through her vitals, checking and rechecking to see what has yet to heal. Tony excuses himself to inform the others, but not before pressing a soothing kiss on her forehead. She feels her eyes grow heavy with fatigue, and muffles a yawn. 

 

"Sleep, Darce. We'll be here when you wake up." She feels the gentle brush of his thumb against her hand and turns to Bruce. 

 

"Is everyone okay? Was anyone--" 

 

" _Darce._ Everyone's fine. Don't worry." He gives her one of his quiet smiles, the one just for her. "Your only job is to focus on getting better, okay? There will be plenty of time to talk about that when you're all healed up." 

 

She shakes her head at him, "Mama bear."

 

"Says the one who force feeds us all the time." He snarks back, his hand slightly tightening around her hand. " _Rest_. I mean what I said earlier. We'll be here when you wake up." With that he too presses a light kiss on her forehead and whispers as he sees her finally give in to exhaustion, " _I promise._ " 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it’s just the cards we’ve been dealt.

With her eyes heavy with misuse, Darcy Lewis wakes up for the second time. She struggles, still reeling from her last night terror, and feels tears slide down the sides of her face. Letting out pitiful whimpers, she lies in bed unable to break free from her own mind. That is, until she hears his voice,

 

“ _Shhh—_ Darcy, you’re okay. I’m right here.” She feels something (someone) stroke her hand and immediately thinks of Bruce, but his voice was of a deeper timbre, his hand firmer, more calloused than the scientist’s. “No one is going to hurt you anymore, Darce.”

 

She sees him, after sluggishly blinking out the tears in her eyes; sees the sad smile in his chiseled face—as if all he wants to do was take all her pain for himself—and can’t help ask, in a voice that is so unlike her, “why me?”

 

He struggles for a moment, his mouth opening and closing for a few times as if trying find the right response, but he sighs instead, gripping her hand more tightly as he moves to sit beside her on the hospital bed. She stares at the regret in his blue eyes (god, they were so blue), and finds herself asking him again, almost in a whisper, “am I…did I do something—”

 

“ _Jesus_ , Darcy, _no_.” The certainty in his voice threatened to overcome her, and yet she couldn’t do anything but listen to him, to the words she needed to hear. “You are not a bad person. You didn’t do anything to deserve this. Whoever took you, they’re, well, they’re a bunch of jackasses. We’re going find them and stop them before they can hurt anyone else,” he pauses for second, and adds, in a much quieter tone, “I’m—I’m sorry we didn’t get to you fast enough…”

 

Darcy thinks that this is the first time Steve has ever looked older than he actually is, and it made her heart twist a little bit more, hurt just enough for her to understand how much her kidnapping affected him—how her kidnapping affected all of them—how her family of quirky, self-sacrificing superheroes spent a whole week believing that they had let her down. He was punishing himself, that much she could see, from the way his body curled inward (far from the unyielding stance she has grown to associate with him), to how his head would reflexively dip down in what she thinks could be a mixture of shame and guilt (like he wasn’t worthy enough to look at her for long). She recalls the frantic way Tony fluttered about when she first woke up, how Bruce noticed even the little winces of pain she tried so hard to conceal.

 

No one was left unscathed by the whole incident.

 

“It’s not fair…”

 

He nodded sagely, pain and regret swirling in those blue orbs; and she knows he’s lost in his memories. “The answer isn’t always pretty.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly in a sad grimace. “It isn’t always what we’re looking for, but my mothe—my mom…she, uh, she used to tell me, when I would get sick,” he swallows past the lump in his throat, “you have to understand, Darce, I got sick a _lot_. There were a lot of times when I couldn’t even get up because of the weather. And I got so _angry—_ wouldn’t even talk to Buck for a few days. Anyway…” he shakes his head at the memory, “my mom, sh—she always used to tell me that things don’t always work out the way we want them to—that we can’t expect them to; sometimes it’s just the cards we’ve been dealt. But she had a secret, you see, she told me God wouldn’t give me anything I couldn’t handle. She said he knew I was strong enough to get through it—that everything will work out in the end.”

 

“Truth is, I’m still trying to figure that one out, but it’s all I—we can do, you know? We endure; wake up every morning even if we might not want to, even if we’re scared,” he’s looking at her now, with sincere eyes and kind smile, ones that betray a sense of humble resignation and acceptance, but not without a hint of utter determination, “but Darcy, if you can look after Tony and Jane and Pepper and Clint and me and, heck, everyone, I’m pretty sure—and I’m always honest, Darce—that you can handle anything. _It’s just gonna take time._ ”

 

The silence that follows in not uncomfortable, both of them taking the chance to settle after such reel of emotions; Steve using the steady beeping of her heart monitor to ground him; Darcy letting his presence eat away the darkness leeching into her mind.

 

_It’s going to take time_ , she quotes, again and again wanting to convince herself, yearning so desperately not be intimidated of its uncertainty, of the limbo-like state she’s trying so hard to break out of. But she tethers herself to him, to his words, and to everyone else’s, lets them pull her back—to save her from the nightmares, from herself.

 

It’s the first time she feels hopeful enough—capable enough to actually get through it, but even with all the guidance and comfort he gave, all the memories he shared, she only had enough strength to rasp out, “thanks,” in a voice sounding so much like who she really was (and that meant more to him than she would ever know).

 

“Anytime, Sparky.” She wrinkles her nose at him, and he, punk that he (secretly) was, winks right back. 

 

_It’s going to take time,_ she repeats, again and again. _It’s just gonna take some time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I would just like to apologize for taking so long to update this :(( second sem has started, and I'm super swamped with med school work. (I'd also like to apologize in advance if the next chapters come out later than I actually planned). I finally finalized the outline for this story (wooh!), hopefully I can pull everything off before this semester ends *fingers crossed*
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and feedback! All your support really means a lot to me


	5. Chapter 5

It would be close to two weeks before Darcy is finally discharged from medical; a few days more before she feels ready enough to go back to her job as all-around scientist herder and elected Avengers liaison.

 

When she does, she is welcomed back with smiles (and snark), as if the whole shebang with the yet unknown fascist group (she’d rather not think about that, _thank you very much_ ) was just another random (well—not _completely_ random, but you get the point) incident in the very distant past. Not to say that everyone’s ignoring the fact that she was almost tortured to death—again she prefers to not repeat the experience, even in her head—but they treat her as if she’s same old Darcy Lewis, beloved Avengers whisperer, shield sister, and taser extraordinaire (honestly, she’s just grateful that they weren’t treating her with kiddy gloves, like she wasn’t on the constant brink of having a complete mental breakdown). She lets their warm company ground her; a touch of affection for her quirky family clawing up her slightly hardened heart.

 

She breezes through accumulating piles of workload with an unusual, at times scary, sense of focus and purposefulness, and manages to catch up after an impressive four days. The rest of them let her be (not without concern and careful watchful eyes), believing that it was her way of coping with what she had gone through. Jane just reminds her to take a break from time to time, sometimes manhandling her to eat more pop tarts than she should (and wasn’t _that_ ironic? she certainly thought so).

 

Days turned to weeks, and before she knows it, it’s been an entire month after _the incident._

 

Steve was right. Time did make it better. There were still nightmares—ones she hated with a passion (she wasn’t naive enough to imagine they would go away after only a month, but _god_ did she pray for it)—though they growing more and more bearable every time she wakes up in her own room, every time she falls asleep with the rest of them during movie nights, and not, as her masochistic dreams suggest, in the dungeon where she was— _nope. Not gonna think about that._

 

JARVIS and Natasha turned out to be better than warm milk and trashy TV in reeling her back from her dilemmas (which, after some thought, didn't surprise her at all). At times when she would jerk awake mid-scream, JARVIS calm voice would spew out nonsense—the weather, latest celebrity gossip, _anything_ —until her breathing settles, ready to call anyone should she need it; somehow though, when the dreams did get to that point, Natasha was already there— _always_ —claiming the bed space next to hers, singing old Russian lullabies as Darcy clings tightly, whimpering pitifully against her neck; though it’s not in her nature to spend the night, leaving soon after she falls back to sleep, Darcy can’t help but love her just a little bit more every time.

 

Everyone was (still is, really) protective in their own way. Clint started to teach her self defense two weeks ago; Thor, as a souvenir from his latest trip to Asgard, gave her an intricately woven gold bracelet, which just so happened to be a kind of inter-realm tracking beacon (it made her happier to know Jane got one as well); Tony upgraded her tazer, which, on a bad day, can make Captain America drop like a stone and stay that way for more than a few seconds (they _had_ to try it somehow, and he _did_ volunteer); and Bruce, closet softy that he is, gave her multiple Avengers-themed knitted sweaters to cuddle with.

 

As far as families go, she knew she won some sort of cosmic lottery.

 

But there are days, very much like today, that make her want to knock some sense to her overly protective bunch of self-sacrificing idiots. (She would like to put it on record that she loves them so very much, like, would totally die for them, but that’s beside the point.)

 

And so, after nagging them relentlessly (while promising to let a small security team tail her from a reasonable distance), she walks out of Stark Tower semi-free, super-charged tazer safely tucked in her pocket, ready to cross the ridiculously short journey to her favorite coffee shop a few blocks over.

 

The smell of well-brewed coffee greets her as she opens the door to the small, family-owned cafe (none of that Starbucks stuff, _thank god_ ), and ends up buying way more pastry than she should, all neatly packed in a tied up brown box. With her favorite spiced mocha secured, she finds a quiet corner and happily sips at her drink, her beloved iPod blasting away her worries even just for a little while. (She’s pretty sure Tony hasn’t stopped tracking her since she left.)

 

She hasn’t really been out that much (if at all) since the _incident,_ if only because no one wants to risk anything like that happening again (most of all herself). The team has been relentless in the past weeks tracking down the assholes who had her, who _hurt_ her. Hydra, surprisingly, has kept a relatively low profile since her rescue. Were they afraid of facing the Avengers’ wrath or something? She sure hoped so. Nonetheless, they had managed to take down four secret bases, one of them serving as a centre of operations for some of their local endeavors. They try not to show it, but Darcy can feel their frustrations rise as they come up empty handed for the fourth time in a row. Apparently, despite Natasha skillfully hacking into their servers, there was no mention of her kidnapping anywhere, not a file, not a note—nothing; the Hydra agents they’ve taken into custody weren't as much help either, claiming (quite pitifully as they were interrogated by Maria) that they made no attempts whatsoever, or that they simply weren't aware that such plans were set in motion.

 

This concerns them more, she thinks—the fact that there were unknown players functioning at this scale. And so they decide to up their game. Clint has whined about too early sparring session for several mornings now (usually after a night of binge watching Firefly or Dancing with the Stars); Steve just smiles magnanimously and tells him to, “get on the mat, Hawkguy.” This never fails to snap Clint back into focus. Nat just smirks at the display, before handing them both their asses. Tony and Bruce began working on some form of unmanned response unit. (Tony has taken to calling them the “Iron Legion”, which Bruce maintains is a stupid name. Darcy is inclined to agree.) Thor’s visits to Midgard becomes more and more frequent (although she reckons Jane is also a huge part of the reason why he does this). Despite their enthusiasm, however, she knows how tired they must be, and ends up wishing for everything to be resolved more times than she could count.

 

Sipping the last of her drink, she stands, takes the box of goodies with her, and thanks the cashier on her way out.

 

Deciding to pass by the novelty store she frequents, she figures the detour won't be too out of the way to make them start to worry. _Just in time,_ she thinks, _I’ve been meaning to get something for Jane’s birthday._ She turns a few corners before the colorful storefront comes to view.

 

_Maybe I should get her that cute sweater with the cartoon telescope on it…_ She was just about to cross the road when, all of a sudden, something catches the corner of her eye. She stops; and, as if her feet had grown a mind of their own, walks instead to a quaint-looking store a few establishments away.

 

Chimes disrupt the quiet room as she enters. An old woman with graying hair, peaks from behind the counter at the back, “may I help you with something?”

 

“Uh, no, thank you.” Darcy gives her a small passing smile as she approaches her object of interest. “I just want to have a look around if that’s okay?”

 

“Not at all, dear. Go right ahead.” The woman goes back to work as Darcy gently sets down the box of pastries just off the side of the exquisite instrument—it’s polished ivory and black keys calling out to her. She marvels at its smooth, sharp lines, the imposing arch of its lid over rows upon rows of golden strings just waiting to played. Without much thought, her fingers inch towards the keys, wondering what type of sound it would make. _It’s a classic Steinway & sons, of course it’s—_

 

“You’re free to try it if you want.” The kind voice snaps her out of her thoughts, making her pull her hand away as if scorched by fire. The woman sees this and apologizes, “I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I just, well, you really look like you’re interested. You can play, if you want. That’s just our display model if you’re worried about damaging it.”

 

“Oh, um,” Darcy clears her throat, trying to hide how panicked she’d been, “thanks. I’ve been meaning to ask.” The woman nods back and gives her another apologetic smile before returning to the pile of forms on the counter.

 

Sitting down on its padded bench, she let’s her fingers graze the length of the keys with a strange of reverence and anticipation.

 

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes—

 

The music she makes is unlike anything anyone has ever heard.

 

 _It was many and many a year ago,_ __

 

She plays which such speed, fingers twiddling from key to key, so light and yet—there is an creeping intensity beneath, threatening to bleed into her song. It does.

 

She is alone, in her mind, in the store—it doesn’t matter. Not then.

 

_In a kingdom by the sea,_

 

There was a room with no light. There was a metal chair.

 

_There lived a—_

 

It was haunting. Hauntingly beautiful. Foreign.

 

_A wind blew out of a cloud,_

 

And cold. So, so cold.

 

_Chilling and killing—_

 

Her song takes on a darker melody, building up to a crescendo of obscure, grotesque grandeur.

 

She inhales, and—

 

Catharsis.

 

Exhale.

 

The last notes reverberate deep in her core, as the deep silence of the almost empty room awaits with bated breath for the next movement, the next break in the stillness.

 

“I’ve never heard someone play so beautifully, my dear.” She sees the awe in her eyes, the unadulterated wonder for what she had just witnessed. “Where did you train?”

 

She swallows past the rising hysteria, the fear for something she herself could not understand, couldn't even being to fathom.

 

In a whisper, so frail and dazed, she replies, “I didn’t.”

 

* * *

 

After hastily taking leave of the piano store, Darcy returns to the Tower unscathed, birthday sweater forgotten.

 

If she was surprised with seeing Pepper in the common room, she was far too numb to show it.

 

“Darcy, heard you’ve gone out. How was it?”

 

Setting down the box of pastries on the kitchen counter (she figured whoever was hungry could just get what they wanted), she moves to give the older woman a quick embrace.

 

“It was good,” she tries to smile reassuringly, “no kidnapping attempts whatsoever.” 

 

“ _Darce—_ ”

 

“I know, bad joke. I’m sorry. It’s just…it went well, I suppose.”

 

Pepper takes a good look at her, concern lightly swirling in her eyes. “Did something—” she began, stepping forward and resting a gentle hand on her arm.

 

“No, no,” she quickly denies, afraid to make this bigger than it should be, “it’s just gonna take some getting used to that’s all.”

 

Pepper purses her lips slightly, unsatisfied. “JARVIS tells me you haven’t been going to your therapy sessions for some time now.”

 

Darcy sighs in defeat, “there’s not much to tell. I don't remember most of what happened to me, and to be honest, I'm sort of glad.” Distracting herself by untying the knotted twine on the pastry box, she continues before Pepper could cut her off. “I only remember being terrified. I remember crying, and I remember screaming a lot, but—” 

 

She shakes her head at the sudden imagery in her mind. “I’m dealing with it, Pepper. I have been for quite a while now. I mean, I still get the occasional nightmare from time to time…who wouldn’t? It sucks, really does, but it is what it is.”

 

“I know it sucks, Darce, but I want you to know you aren’t alone in this. I’m always gonna be one call away, alright?” 

 

“I’m doing better, Pep, really,” she smiles, more genuinely than the last, “you guys will be the first ones to know if I’m not okay. I promise. There’s nothing to worry about.”

 

She throws the tangled twine in the trash, “I’m gonna go freshen up before dinner, okay?”

 

“Of course, I’ll see you later.”

 

Pepper’s keen eyes watch her as she goes.

 

“JARVIS?”

 

“Yes, Miss Potts?”

 

“I need you to do something for me…”

 

* * *

Her _Science!_ team would need to be fed soon, she figures, glancing at the clock on her nightstand.

 

Has it really only been a little more than two hours since she left?

 

She sets her bag on the bed, herself closely following suit. Her conversation with Pepper replays itself in her head—a gnawing feeling creeping up in her chest at her obvious dishonesty.

 

_No._ She meant what she said. She’s getting better every day. She’s fine (or at least, she _will_ be). It’s just gonna take some time, exactly like what Steve said.

 

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she mutters, trying to convince herself of the fact, “I’m fine. Everything’s okay.”

 

She doesn’t know what to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still can't believe it's been over a month since I last had the time to work on this. Apologies again for the delayed updates. I didn't know back-to-back renal and neuro physiology could be so brutal as to cause severe sleep deprivation. I'm on the mend now, thankfully blessed with the weekend to recharge before starting obstetrics lectures next week (pray for my soul, guys). Anyway, thanks for the overwhelming responses you've given me! I shall take these to heart as I continue to indulge my love for everything Marvel. 
> 
> Btw, Captain America: Civil War is going to seriously damage my fragile psyche, I just know it. Stay strong, Romanogers shippers. We stand united.


	6. Chapter 6

She was in the kitchen again, wrapping up sandwiches for her and Jane. It was well past lunchtime, but she’d only just managed to convince her best friend that food was vital in preventing cognitive impairments (oh, the things she learns). Sighing loudly, not without a deep sense of fondness (and exasperation), she soothes her grumbling stomach with cookies she’d made the night before. 

 

Food and water bottles in hand, she makes her way to the elevators, hoping to god Jane hasn't passed out from her Science! binge. A familiar voice cuts through her thoughts, however, and she slows to a stop just as Steve and an unknown man exit the elevator in front of her,  “—ven’t tested how far I can actually run, though Bruce suggested using a treadmi—Oh, sorry —Darce!” She smiles at his greeting, subtly questioning Steve with her eyes. He grins back at her. “Darcy, this is my friend, Sam Wilson. He works at the VA. We met a few weeks ago during one of my morning runs. Sam, this is Darcy Lewis, Avengers herder and one of my best friends.”

 

“Herder?” Sam asks, his face lighting up with amusement. She smiles at him coyly (even she  can’t deny that he’s one good looking man) and nods.

 

She leans in slightly, mischief twinkling in her eyes, and says in a shouting whisper, “It’s like a  college dorm in here, only with scientists/children and assassins/super soldiers who don’t know  how to work the washing machine. This guy,” dramatically inclining her head at Steve, “totally  puts back empty boxes of snacks in the pantry.”

 

Steve pretends to be affronted, “I do not!” He swivels to Sam in fake haste, “Thor’s the one who eats all the Pop Tarts!”

 

The three burst into laughter, and Darcy has to remember that her hands were otherwise occupied. “Speaking of food, I have to get back to Jane. Foster. Astrophysicist. Nobel  Laureate.” She tried to explain, “She’s been working non-stop since eight a.m. I should probably force feed her now before she faints or something.”

 

Steve gives her sympathetic look. “I know how the scientists get. Go. I promised Sam  I’d show him the gym anyway.”

 

She nods, grateful. “Okay, well, you boys have fun. There’re cookies in the fridge if you want ‘em. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Wilson.”

 

“Sam, please, Ms. Lewis.” He was smiling at her kindly. She returns the favor.

 

“Darcy, then. I’ll see you guys around.”

 

The men watch her leave until the elevator doors close firmly behind her. Sam turns to Steve in all seriousness, “She have a boyfriend?”

 

Steve bursts out laughing and gets rewarded by a solid punch to the arm. “You really can pick  ‘em, you know.” Sam scowls at him, and he forces himself to calm down. “Darcy isn’t just my  best friend, Sam. She’s family. Everyone here looks out for her, and I do mean everyone, right JARVIS?”

 

Sam jumps in surprise at the voice overhead. “He is correct, Mr. Wilson. Ms. Lewis is an invaluable member of the household, and it would be unwise of any man to think it acceptable to trifle with her person, emotional or otherwise.” 

 

Upon hearing the blatant threat, he raises both his hands in obvious surrender, eyes swimming with slight fear. “Dude, I was just asking. No flirting with the pretty girl. Got it.”

 

Steve rests a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Oh, you can flirt with her all you want, Wilson.  She’d probably flirt back. I’m just saying she’s not one of those girls you can drag along. I’d be disappointed if you were to play around with my best friend.” The pointed look he gives has Sam swallowing nervously before letting out breathless laughter.

 

“Jesus, you can be terrifying when you’re all big brother, you know that?”

 

Steve scoffs, pulling his reluctant friend to the waiting elevator, “Please. You haven't even met  the others yet. Tony would probably have you hanging from the roof if he’d known. God forbid  what Thor—No, what Natasha would do.”

 

“Natasha, as in Natasha Romanoff, as in the Black Widow?” Steve nods, and Sam lets out a  sound of disbelief. The doors close soundlessly.

 

Steve attempts to console his friend, “You’ll find the right partner one day, pal.” He hears him  mutter a ‘maybe’ under his breath. There’s a beat of silence before Sam speaks again.

 

“Hey man, do you think she’s available?”

 

“She?” Steve looks at him in confusion.

 

“The Black Widow. Natasha—”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” 

 

Steve nods, keeping his eyes forward.

 

“Oh.” He hangs his head, slightly disappointed at his missed opportunity, when he sees a strange glint in Steve’s eyes, and observes his friend’s sudden change in behavior. The pieces  falling into place in his head (there’s a good reason why he worked as a therapist after all). “ _Oh_.”

 

“Shut up, Wilson.”

 

“‘M not saying anything, Rogers.” He couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

A part of her misses the night sky in New Mexico, the random drinking adventures with Erik, and intimate stargazing with Jane. Of course, she’s overjoyed with where they were now; Jane finally getting the recognition and respect she deserved, Erik on his feet after the whole Loki skirmish and, well, getting to live and work in one of the greatest cities in the world. But it was simpler then, and a part of her yearns for those moments back.

 

“Hey, Janie?” Her best friend makes a noncommittal noise as she goes through sheets of equations. Darcy tries again, “Janieeee. Notice me, Senpai.”

 

This time, not only does Jane set down her notes begrudgingly, she’s also giving a healthy dose of exasperated and fond glaring. “What is it, Darce?”

 

“Can we please go sky-gazing tonight?” She asked, putting on her puppy eyes of doom as she  did.

 

Jane merely quirked an eyebrow at her best friend, “Sky-gazing?”

 

“Yeah, sky-gazing. I know it hurts your geeky heart, but we’d be lucky to even see one star in  this light polluted city.”

 

“Ah.” The scientist looks down at the unfinished formulas in her hands. “I don’t know…”

 

Darcy, however, was not having it, eager to give them both a break after days—nay, weeks of non-stop work. “Come on, Jane. It’ll be just like old times! I can even bring out cheap-ass tequila and that crappy knitted blanket you love so much. It would be awesome!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, ok—wait. Blanket? I thought that got lost during the move over here. You’ve kept it  all this time?”

 

Uncertain as to how the older women would react, she responds, “Uh, yes?”

 

Ever so slowly, Jane set aside her papers, placing the custom paperweight (it read: “Do Not  Touch. I know how to open interdimensional portals) Darcy gifted her last Scientist Appreciation Day. (Yes, she made the holiday up, and yes, only her little herd of scientists celebrate it, but Bruce needed the happy vibes after an accidental Hulk episode, which was totally Tony’s fault.)  Jane then proceeds to walk calmly towards her, and just when she was about to asked her what the hell was going on, Darcy sees the big cheshire grin on her friend and finds herself suddenly wrapped in a tight hug. Suffice to say, it was awkward and not at all Jane-like. She was worried. _Really_ worried.

 

“Stop that.” She orders, in a playfully stern voice while simultaneously trying to wiggle free from Jane’s surprisingly strong arms, “You’re seriously starting to freak me out, Janie.” 

 

She said nothing at first, content to tease her best friend/assistant with her (scary) megawatt smile; then, seemingly out of nowhere, she all but yelled, “You love meeeee.” 

 

Breathless laughter broke out of Darcy in disbelief, a part of her secretly pleased with her friend’s unexpected playfulness. She moves to return her hug as best as she could. Her hand, with some skillful contortion involved, comes up to gently stroke her disheveled hair.

 

“I think I’ve been rubbing off on you too much.” 

 

Later that evening, as Bingley, the blanket, was laid out on the cold cemented roof of the tower, as several glasses of stolen, not-so-cheap Tequila (from Tony’s private collection—it’s no secret that JARVIS had a soft spot for her) was downed with utmost vigor, and boisterous laughter burst from their lips as they (she, really, Jane had said it was impossible) tried to find stars or constellations in the plain black sky, she finds that she could hardly bring herself to care.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam becomes a familiar face in the tower. So much so that she, quite happily, found him an easy friend to confide in. And given that he was, after all, a certified therapist, it was only a matter of time before she slowly eased into talking about her experiences and troubles—much to everyone’s overwhelming relief. JARVIS and Natasha were still there when she needed them,  but as more and more evenings came and went, her nightmares slowly (blissfully) faded into  small disturbances she had learnt to ignore. Her training sessions with Clint helped as well.  She no longer felt like the defenseless girl she once was. She was stronger now, in more ways  than one.

 

None of these developments explained why Darcy Lewis chose to keep lying to herself.

 

The strange thing was, no matter what she did, the nagging whispers in the back of her mind wheedled their way into her daily thoughts. Telling her things she long tried to forget. Stranger still was that her short trips to the same piano store around the block were solely her own. Hidden beneath cravings of spiced mocha lattes, cinnamon butter doughnuts, and take-out lunch orders. Some had their suspicions, sure, but she had brushed off their concerns with snark and baked goods.

 

After all, she reasoned, some things are better left unsaid.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later, after managing to bribe Jane into cleaning up for dinner, she makes her way to the common room—floor, really—to get herself a well-deserved drink. 

 

She’d just got out of the elevator when Tony’s voice cuts through the room,“Darce! Just the person we’ve been waiting for.” He was standing across from her, just behind the coffee table. Pepper leisurely lounging on the couch beside him, who straightens when she sees the younger woman approach. 

 

Darcy smiles at both of them, albeit reserved, “What’s up?”

 

“You’ve been keeping a secret from us.” That stops her dead in her tracks. Her initial confusion quickly overcome with panic. She struggles to act nonplussed by his words. How— 

 

Pepper (god bless her) soothes her dilemma, “Please don’t listen to my idiot boyfriend, Darcy.” Neither of them notices the way her shoulders drop with relief. “What he means to say is that we weren't aware of your hidden talents.” 

 

“I don’t—” 

 

“JARVIS mentioned you’ve been frequenting a piano store when you go out.”

 

Panic tried to breakthrough once again as she explained, “Oh, um, it’s a beautiful store, and, ah, I just…I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

 

“Nonsense!” Tony interjected. “You’re family, Darce.” Despite her uneasiness for the whole situation, Tony pretending to be nonchalant about it was pretty adorable. He added, “Plus, the woman who worked there said that you were the best pianist she’s ever heard.”

 

Darcy felt her cheeks warm at the compliment, “Well, uh, that’s very kind of her to say, but really I’m not that good—”

 

“Prodigy, Darcy—prodigy. That’s what she said.” His arms flail dramatically at her obvious shyness (which was so unlike her, he later realized). “At par with Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Rachmaninov—all the greats. You should’ve seen her. She had googly eyes the entire time we talked—”

 

“Darcy,” Pepper cuts in, giving the billionaire a warning glare, “I know it’s been a rough couple of months for you, but if playing the piano helps, then we’d want you to do as much of it as you want.”

 

“Wha—” 

 

“It means, my lovely adopted soulchild, we bought you a present.” Tony’s wide smile was full with excitement as he gestured to the darkened corner of the common room/floor. “Tada!” 

 

On cue, JARVIS shines a soft spotlight on what could possibly be the most beautiful instrument she has ever seen. How Darcy missed it in the first place is mind-boggling. In awe of the craftsmanship and the seemingly magical gleam of its polished keys and body, she could hardly stop staring at it. Her eyes land on the proud name embossed on its side, and she couldn't help but gasp breathlessly upon the sudden realization, “My god, is that—” 

 

“A Bosendorfer? Yes, it is.” He replies in a smug tone, but she could hear the slight nervousness underneath. Approaching it hesitantly, unsure if she was even worthy enough to do so. 

 

“I don’t…” she stutters. A Bosendorfer Grand Piano. They had just bought her the world’s most expensive piano. “I—guys, it’s—you didn't have to.” They _really_ didn’t. “It’s too much.” Far, far too much.

 

“Yes, we did, and don't be ridiculous. Billionaire, remember?” He adds in a quieter voice, “You like it?”

 

“I…” Swallowing past the lump in her throat (and, if she was being honest, an overwhelming sense of dread), she manages to say, “Yes. Thank you.”

 

Tony nods once and then rubs his hands together, “Okay, enough of this mushy emotional stuff. I’m starving.” JARVIS speaks before Pepper could, “Ms. Potts, I have already called the rest of the team for dinner. They will be down shortly.”

 

Tony immediately goes to the wonderful spread laid on the table. Too afraid to ruin the polish of the piano in front of her, Darcy settles on taking in every detail of the instrument, but was soon distracted by Tony’s sudden suggestion, “Hey, Darce,” he was already munching on something (much to Pepper’s displeasure), “Maybe after dinner you could play us a little something. I wasn't joking about what the store manager said.”

 

Pepper mistakes her fidgeting for modest hesitance and immediately intervenes, “Leave her alone, Tony. She’ll play when she wants to.” Tony merely shrugs and stuffs another shrimp in his mouth. His girlfriend clicks her tongue at him before turning to her. “Are you alright?”

 

She tries to give the older woman a reassuring smile. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine.” She clears her throat. “I’m great. Thank you again, Pep.” 

 

She finds herself wrapped in a warm hug. “You _are_ family, Darce,” Pepper says, as if it explained everything. 

 

Returning the embrace as tightly as she could. She wanted nothing more than to sob into her shoulder. But no matter how strong her emotions, somewhere—a voice—at the back of her mind, refused to let her feelings show.

 

It simply wasn't allowed.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite Tony’s (and surprisingly, Jane's) constant nagging, she refuses to play in front of anyone else, always diverting the conversation with snark and talk of other matters. She gets better at it, to the point that Natasha doesn't seem as suspicious as she once was. The lack of playing slowly grates on her nerves though, as her short visits to the piano store stop—she just couldn’t risk their attention again, not when everyone’s settled into this new routine.

 

Darcy finds herself at a loss. Guilt slowly eating her alive as she goes on pretending that she was alright, ardently believing that it would all go away eventually, that she would get better as more and more nights pass undisturbed.

 

_It would just take time_.

 

* * *

 

 

Something big was going to happen today. She was sure of it.

 

The unease in her stomach had been there the moment she opened her eyes that morning. The utter lack of freshly brewed coffee did nothing to soothe it. (She would later learn that Clint accidentally broke the coffee pot and ran to get a new one before Darcy could castrate him. He was late, obviously, but she figured she’d let him live since he did bring back donuts for the rest of them.) Bruce and Jane had been neck deep with their respective projects since then, leaving her to the ever growing pile of transcriptions and files she had to digitize and archive before the week was done. Grumbling unhappily into her second cup of coffee, she grits her teeth and gets to it with fierce efficiency. Fingers flying across the keyboard, arms going back and forth as if in choreography, Darcy actually surprises herself with how much she’s managed to finish before JARVIS reminds them all of dinner. 

 

It was Steve’s turn to cook that night—not Thor’s—she remembers, silently thanking the gods as she corralled both Jane and Bruce to the waiting elevator. (She really wasn't up to Thor roasting a whole cow today—a _whole_ cow. With pop tarts for dessert, usually.) After a quick shower in her own apartment, she sets about helping Steve with dinner. A feast, it would seem, as trays of pot roast and grilled vegetables were laid out on the table. 

 

Saturday nights were required family affairs (except, of course, during long term missions and the like). Home cooked meals were hit or miss in the tower. Everyone was partial to Bruce’s chicken curry (and, despite what Tony says, Steve’s meatloaf), but Clint’s version of a street fair/carnival lasagna with store bought nachos and globs of cheese whiz left much to be desired. 

 

Dinners gradually evolved to include movie marathons, incentivized by decadent desserts and promises of limited lab time extensions. 

 

“Hey, Darce?” Snapping out of her reverie, she turns to a worried-looking Bruce. She smiles reassuringly at him, quickly pulling out the chocolate mouse she’d been meaning to get for the team; shutting the refrigerator door with a silent thunk, she asks, “What’s up, big guy?”

 

“I just wanted to see if you needed any help.” He explained, before moving closer. “Are you alright? You seem distracted.” 

 

“Yeah, I’m good.” She places the cake on the counter, arranging the cutlery and plates mindlessly. His gentle hand stops her fidgeting. She meets his eyes, and quietly admits, “I haven't been sleeping well recently.” 

 

“Nightmares?” 

 

She shakes her head, silently laughing at her own pettiness, “My mind won’t shut up no matter how much I want to sleep. I tried _everything_. The breathing thing Nat taught me. I tried the white noise app. I _bought_ a humidifier. Nothing. I counted sheep, Bruce. I fucking _counted_ sheep.” Her attempt at humor won her a pitying smile. (She’d gladly take it. After all, it was lightyears better than the not-so-subtle worried glances they throw her way.)

 

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. I can give you some of my tea if you want.” Distantly she could hear Tony and Thor arguing over which animated movie to watch. 

 

“Uh, no offense, Bruce, but your tea collection’s well within the exotic zo—” 

 

JARVIS’ mechanical voice cuts through her rambling. “Excuse me, Captain Rogers. I received an urgent call to assemble from Agent Hill.”

 

“What’s going on, JARVIS?” Steve—no, Captain America asked. 

 

“A sizable terrorist group is forcing its way to a nuclear base in Karachi. They have resisted the attack; however, their defenses will not hold for long. Data suggests that they are targeting the reactor.” 

 

“Tell Hill we’re on our way.” Cap turned to rest of the team, “Wheels up in five.”

 

The Avengers burst into action. Tony and Thor kissing their girlfriends as they went. Bruce giving her an apologetic smile before following them to the waiting elevator. 

 

The doors close, not before she reminded them to stay safe, and suddenly it was just the three of them left. A beat of silence and then—

 

“Well, I don't know about you, guys, but I’d really like a drink right about now.” Jane said, already moving to pull out bottles and glasses from the liquor cabinet. The two other women smile knowingly at each other before helping her pour out the drinks. They settle on the recently vacated couch, the opening sequence of Tangled muted on the screen.

 

“JARVIS, can you get us news coverage from Karachi?” The scene switches to different angles of the nuclear plant, shots of news reporters and cameramen brave enough to stay and monitor the situation from afar. “Are they seeing this? What’s their ETA?” 

 

“They’ll arrive on site within the hour, Miss Potts. The team is currently being prepped by both Agent Hill and Agent May.” Flashes of orange and white are seen in the background. It didn't take much to know they were trying (desperately) to blow their way in. 

 

Half an hour quickly passes by; the three of them now huddled together under a wide knitted blanket. The terrorist group has yet to catch their breath, pushing inward on multiple fronts. Local military and police units were now actively working to lessen the assault on the nuclear plant, targeting some of the bigger melee sections. They didn't have a chance.

 

“The team is approaching the nuclear plant. Estimated time of arrival, five minutes.” 

 

Darcy decides to get up (not an easy task, mind you, being squished by Pepper and Jane on _both_ sides) and pours herself another glass of Merlot. She proceeds to the kitchens, intent on brewing them coffee for the long night, when a nagging thought pops into her head.

 

“You know what I don't get?” She starts, pulling their attention from the screen, “Why they decided to go in with guns blazing. I mean, what the actually fuck? Did they really think it would be easier if everyone knew what the hell they were after?” 

 

“Well, I don't know if they actually think about that stuff, Darce. Maybe they think they had enough manpower to take down security before reinforcements arrived.” Jane replies, popping another pistachio in her mouth. 

 

“But they have to have contingencies, right? I’m willing to bet they’re professional. They wouldn't have lasted this long otherwise.” Pepper seemed deep in thought, Darcy continued, “They don't look ready to surrender anytime soon, despite knowing more help is on the way. For Christ’s sake, aren't they expecting to lose right about now? They’re fucking surrounded. They’re nowhere near the reactor, _plus_ they don't have anywhere else to go. It’s a suicide mission.” She takes a big gulp of wine, frustrated at the prolonged tension.

 

“Unless,” Pepper starts, color draining from her face. “They’re after something else.”

 

“The Avengers?” Jane asks worriedly, “But that doesn't make any sense. They’re in no position to fight them. They’ve already lost as is.”

 

The silence that washes over them is unsettling. Darcy tries to reassure all of them, “I’m sure Nat or Steve already thought this through.” 

 

Jane nods in agreement, but can’t help but turn to Pepper, “Is there anyway we can reach them? Or is it too late for that?” 

 

“I’m sure I can still get through to Tony at least.” She sets her glass on the coffee table before calling out, “JARVIS?” 

 

Nothing. Everyone held their breath. 

 

Pepper tries again, “JARVIS?”

 

Nothing still. The two women stand in haste. Darcy stood rooted to her spot in the kitchen.

 

Static bursts through the speakers, startling the three of them into action. Pepper curses at her unresponsive phone, already reaching for the gun hidden underneath the table. Jane rushes to arm herself with an empty wine bottle. 

 

A voice stops Darcy from reaching for the knife block on the counter.

 

“ _Privet, Angel._ ” (Hello, Angel.)

 

Pepper and Jane look around in confusion. They couldn't understand what the voice was saying. But she could. She _could_.

 

“ _Sdelayte glubokiy vdokh._ ” (Take a deep breath.)

 

She does. 

 

“ _Ochisti svoy razum._ ” (Clear your mind.)

 

Her wine glass crashes to the floor. Red liquid spreading on white tiles. She hears Pepper and Jane crying out her name in the background.

 

“ _Tridtsat_ ' _devyat_ ’.” (Thirty nine.)

 

They’re desperate to approach her, she knows. She’s desperate to get them to leave her behind. 

 

“ _Dvorets_.” (Palace.)

 

Pepper takes small steps, arms raised to not frighten her. “Whatever he’s saying, block it out, Darce. Come on, Lewis. Look at me. That’s it.” She is looking, but no more than that. Her eyes scream at both of them to stop trying. 

 

“ _Borscht_.” (Borscht.)

 

“Darcy,“ Jane whispers, teary-eyed and clutching the wine bottle to her chest in comfort, “You can do it. Stop listening to him. Focus, Darce. _Focus_.”

 

“ _Kholodno_.” (Cold.)

 

She wants to cry. She wants to scream at both of them. _Get back! Get ba—_

 

“ _Sestra_.” (Sister.)

 

Something in her snaps. Her eyes turn blank. Unrecognizing. Her hands start to shake. Jane and Pepper look on, horrified and helpless. 

 

Pepper tries and tries to get JARVIS to respond. Jane doesn't stop crying out her name.

 

“Zimy vsegda smertelen v Novgorode.” (Winters are always deadly in Novgorod.)

 

The last thing she sees is Jane racing towards her as she falls to the ground. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Borscht is a classic Russian beetroot soup  
> PS. I do not speak Russian, all translations are from online sources. I apologize for language errors. 
> 
> Hello, lovely readers! Thanks for braving this drought of writing motivation with me. As I've said before, my second year of med is a scheduling nightmare, with sleepless nights and tons of information to master. Updates will be far in between, but I'll endeavor to add or post new works when I can. 
> 
> Cheers to y'all! Hope you've been well these past few months!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anything else, I would just like to thank all the lovely people who have braved through this rocky journey with me, especially those who continue to do so despite numerous delays in chapter updates, new stories, and the like. 
> 
> Your support--feedback, comments, and kudos--keep me happy, sane, and inspired <3
> 
> Thanks, guys! It really means a lot. I hope all of you are doing well!
> 
> PS. I apologize in advance for any language errors. I tried to edit and proofread as best as I could, but my eyes can only handle so much reading before everything kinda blurs together.

 

Her eyes snap open, instantly alert, unwilling to be unprepared should she need to act. She takes in the quietness of the room she’s in, its white walls and spotless chrome finishing, and feels her muscle coil in anticipation despite the deep ache radiating from the sides of her head.

 

She does not know where she is.

 

A small movement snaps her attention to the brunette woman sitting awkwardly by her bedside. She was asleep as far as she could tell, her hands tightly clutching an old, faded afghan around her thin frame, seemingly cold in the temperate room. 

 

The asset assesses her situation.

 

_Status: Asset is functional, with bilateral temporal lobe pain, 1/10, and moderate dehydration. Restrained. Unarmed. Confined to a medical facility._

_Location: Unknown._

_Time: 0526 hours_

_Date: Unknown_

_Mission: None. Awaiting orders._

_Person of Interest: Female, early thirties, caucasian, brunette, 5’7, underweight, untrained, unconscious. Threat level: 1._

_Exit Routes: Limited. Requires further assessment._

_Course of Action: Standby. Determine nature of containment._

 

It’s not uncommon to find herself in unknown locations. Handlers moved assets where they were needed, wherever they saw fit. Even the restraints were something she was used to. Assets were not meant to question after all, and she was, undoubtedly, one of their best. 

 

But assets were never brought to medical unless absolutely necessary—she was neither severely injured nor dying; never given the comfort of private rooms and padded beds; never watched by someone untrained and careless as the sleeping woman beside her.

 

Faint footsteps from outside her room pull her from her thoughts. She shuts her eyes quickly, feigning sleep to learn more about her captivity.

 

The door opens gently as if whoever entered took special care to keep its occupants undisturbed. (Operatives and handlers were rarely that considerate.) She tenses even more.

 

Opening her eyes ever so slightly as she takes in the man that entered. 

 

_Male, late twenties, caucasian, blonde, blue eyes, 6’2, 220lbs, highly trained. Threat level: 8._

 

_Der’mo_ (shit) _._ The possibility of escaping unscathed was shrinking by the second. She had to act soon, she decided, unwilling to remain if she was being held from her handlers.

Continuing her act, she goes through the motions of someone waking up from deep sleep. It works. The man lets out a surprised, yet relieved breath.

 

_“_ Darce! Thank god, you're awake. It’s okay. You’re safe. When we heard what happened…”

 

_American_. An eerie calmness washes over her, clearing her mind; her heart pounding loudly in her ears.

 

He was eager in approaching her, setting down two styrofoam cups of steaming coffee on the rolling table by the foot of her bed. Concern flooded his features when he sees a glimpse of confusion in her eyes, and realizes the awkward position she must have found herself in, waking up disoriented and restrained as she did. He tries to placate her as best as he could. 

 

“Darcy,” he repeated— _alias unknown_ (she has never been referred to that way)—“the restraints are just a precaution, I swear. We didn't know what to expect—I’m sorry, I told them it wasn't necessary, but they insisted.”

 

The asset wasn’t untrained—wasn’t stupid enough to waste a good opportunity when one presents itself so readily. They were playing mind games, trying to fool her into thinking she safe, lulling her into a false sense of comfort—of complacency. It could've worked on someone else, someone less like her, but there was a reason she’s been kept alive for so long.

 

Continuing her ruse, she croaks out (in English), “where am I?”

 

He answers promptly, oddly with a touch of warmth. “Medical. After you fainted, we had to make sure you were alright.”

 

She resists the urge to grimace at that, having hoped for more useful information. She tries again, “what happened?”

 

“Pepper said someone took over JARVIS while we were handling the situation in Karachi. She said someone tried to get to you through the loudspeakers. Jane was there too,” nodding his head to the sleeping brunette beside her, “wouldn’t leave you alone after you fell.”

 

Curious. “Do you know what they said?” Her voice cracks with the effort. The man moves to pour her a glass of water.

 

“They couldn't understand any of it. Pepper said it sounded Russian? Or maybe somewhere from Eastern Europe. We’re looking into it. Tony’s been working on a way to get the recording back. Natasha, well, she’s being more cautious than usual, but you know how she is.” Leaning over the bed, he tips the straw to her mouth, smiling gently as he did. She pretends to drink as any water-deprived patient would.

 

Unaware of her deception, he pulls away, setting the untouched cup on her bedside without a second glance. 

 

She's befuddled when he tilts his head upward to look at the ceiling. _What was he doin_ —

 

“JARVIS, can you let them know she’s awake?”

 

The voice overhead sends absolute panic straight to her chest. They had been watching her all this time. They know. _They know_. 

 

“They have been informed, Captain. They are on their way.”

 

No. _No._ She can’t let them outnumber her. If they’re as trained as he is—she needed to get away. _Now_. 

 

In a blink of an eye, she’s ripped free from her restraints. Using his initial shock (and inaction) to her advantage, her arms reach out in a blur, tightly grabbing hold of him before tossing him forcefully over her bed, smashing his bulk against the stack of equipment on the other side. 

 

She wastes no time in vaulting from her position, ignoring the distressed yelp from the woman jarred awake by the commotion.

 

Only a few feet stood between her and the exit when the door slams open. She sees the man get up from her periphery. 

 

She’d run out of time. _Suka blyad_ (motherfucker).

 

She jumps back, eyes frantically darting around her, looking for anything to use against them.

 

“Steve! What’s going—” 

 

In a moment, the asset has the brunette in a chokehold, ready to snap her neck should the situation call for it. 

 

The newcomers flood the room, weapons ready, making her snarl in frustration. She tightens her hold on the woman, who proceeds to let out a whimper of pain (and surprise). 

 

“Sister—” thunder rumbles from a distance, “what is the meaning of this?”

 

She refuses to let them confuse her any further as she scans them, eyes sharply landing on the woman farthest from her. Her arms lock in tension as she tramples down the bubble of panic in her throat. She knows that stance, recognizes the control and well-disguised weapons under her clothes. 

 

A memory stirs. Whispers of a new apprentice, of the next great weapon. A red-headed girl, one of twenty-eight. His protégé. _Natalia?_

 

None of it made any sense. She wasn't supposed to be here. _They_ weren't supposed to be here. Her handlers wouldn’t have been that negligent, unless—

 

“Chto ty ot menya khochesh’ (what do you want from me)?” She growls at the woman, her accent turned heavy and menacing.

 

All of them are stunned into silence, properly horrified by what they were witnessing.

 

The red-headed woman takes a step back, the gun in her hand trembling slightly.

 

“Nat, what—” 

 

Without looking away, the woman asks her, in a tone full of fear and anguish (she does not understand),

 

“ _What did they do to you?_ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 is well on its way, but with comprehensive exams coming up, I might not be able to finish it until the end of the semester (around June).
> 
> PS. I'll be traveling a lot during the break (gotta make the most of it before becoming a medical clerk next year), so I'll try my best to keep the writing juices flowing while scouring for good internet. *fingers crossed*
> 
> PPS. I never knew how complicated electrolytes are until nephrology, or how fucking terrifying it is to get Tuberculosis until I examined a patient with end-stage renal disease on life-long dialysis. 
> 
> Please take care of yourself and your families. Try to eat healthily and look for fun, engaging hobbies for exercise (personally, I love how refreshing and sweat-free swimming is). Have annual check-ups and consult if you're sick (and haven't been getting better for some time). 
> 
> I know healthcare isn't all that easy to get (as a citizen of a developing country with one of the highest incidences of TB infections and other neglected diseases, I know all about not being able to afford expensive treatment), but all that talk of money won't (shouldn't) matter when your life or someone else's life is on the line. There are a lot of organizations out there who can help you finance/cover some treatment costs if needed.
> 
> Remember, prevention will always better than receiving treatment/cure.
> 
> And on that note, I hope all of you have wonderfully long lives...and vaccinate your kids (please).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She fights until her strength bleeds unto the floor; until her body follows and falls on the redness beneath her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. An update. I'm just as happy about this as I hope most of you are. 
> 
> Special shoutout to the readers who've weathered this writing drought with the utmost patience and kindness. You guys are the best!
> 
> Trigger warning: this chapter delves into Darcy's time in captivity and contains scenes which may be uncomfortable to read.
> 
> PS. I apologize in advance for any language errors. I tried to edit and proofread as best as I could, but my eyes can only handle so much before everything starts to blur together.

 

The sudden cold jerks her from unconsciousness. 

 

“Ice water? Really? Couldn't you have just nudged me awake or something? Where the fuck did you learn your manners, you douchebag?” 

 

She isn’t surprised when her head snaps to the side; the slap echoing in the small concrete room. She swallows back another insult, Natasha’s words ringing furiously in her ear. _Distract and investigate, sestra_ (sister) _, but do not give them the opportunity to hurt you more than they need to._

 

Shaking out the sting, she coughs, chest burning from the many bruises she received when they took her. The metal chains that suspend her creak gratingly, sending currents of pain down her arms. _Fucking awesome_. 

 

Trying her best to keep as still as possible, she resists the urge to rile him up too much…again. 

 

“That it? Am I just gonna hang here? I have to say, love what you’ve done with the place—the warehouse aesthetic really adds to the villainy factor—but what the actual fuck, guys. Seriously. Didn’t your mothers ever tell you to play nice when you want something?”

 

She curses as the man moves toward her for the second time, but the door slams open before he could do anything else. The light flickers above them. Her stomach twists at the sight.

 

A dark silhouette stands in the doorway. 

 

“Privet.” (Hello.) 

 

The rest of them fall silent as the man enters, dressed in a black suit she’d reckon cost more than it should. He was untouchable, exuding the strength of someone in charge—unbreakable. His men watch from the sides.

 

“Is this where you monologue about your super evil genius plot for world domination?” Natasha’s all but screaming in her ear by this point. 

 

“Quite.” He looks uninterestingly at the chains that suspend her. “But I must confess that world domination doesn't interest me in the slightest. You, on the other hand, are a different matter altogether.” 

 

“Buster, I don’t know what the hell you want, but you’re barking at the wrong tree here. I’m just a lab assistant.” God, all she wanted was to get a drink away from the craziness. If she only knew…

 

“Fascinating.” His callused hands meet under his chin, before twisting towards her. “You truly don't recognize me, do you?” 

 

“Should I? Are you one of those one night stand bitter types? because I got to tell you—”

 

“Enough.” She almost didn't notice his brows furrow in annoyance. “Well, you’ve certainly been thorough.”

 

Confusion threatened to undo the semblance of sanity she’d managed to hold on to. “Okay, what the fuck does that even mean? I don’t even know why I’m here—”

 

He cuts her off again, this time grabbing her face painfully with this hand. His touch bruising, pressing against the bone of her cheeks. Cold, black eyes stare into her tear-filled baby blues. When he speaks, gone is the casual amusement from before. His voice morphs into something sinister, wild anger bleeding through. 

 

“You think you can change who you are? Bury yourself behind this, this nobody—this Darcy Lewis?” He leans close, tightening his grip further when he sees the confusion in her eyes. His lips came to but a hair’s breadth away from hers. She tries to turn away, but he merely chuckles at her attempts. 

 

“Don’t worry, little one, I’ll make you remember.” With that he shoves her away, her wrists protesting as she swung back and forth. “I’ll make you remember every nightmare you forced yourself to forget.”

 

He turns to leave, the lackeys around him standing in attention. He nods at the man who hit her.

 

“They’ll come for me.” She whispers to his retreating back. Clearing her throat she repeats it, louder for everyone to hear. “They’ll come for me.”

 

He stops as the door swings open. Fear shoots up her spine as he grins over his shoulder. 

 

“Oh, I know, _Angel_.” He taunts, downright gleeful—as if knowing something she didn’t. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

 

His footsteps echo as he said his parting words,

 

“The question, little one, is if they’ll make it in time.”

 

* * *

 

_She was seven when she fell off her shiny new bike for the first time. She loved that bike, begged her parents day and night for it before they finally caved._

 

_Eager for her first ride, she stole away while her parents were busy preparing dinner, but her arrogance quickly led to a head-on collision with an old oak tree across the street. She hit her head and scrapped her knees badly as she landed on the dirt._

 

_Her mama, having seen her from the kitchen window, shouted in surprise and worry. Her papa ran to her fallen form, picking her up gently while checking her wounds._

 

_She cried non-stop when the doctor examined her injuries._

 

* * *

 

They have their way with her.

 

She screams until her throat’s scratched raw, unable to form even the smallest of sounds. 

 

She fights until her strength bleeds unto the floor; until her body follows and falls on the redness beneath her.

 

* * *

 

_She was seven when she fell off her bike for the first time. She wanted that bike, begged for it even._

 

_Eager to play free, she stole away while her parents were watching television, yet her carelessness quickly led to a painful collision with the mailbox across the street. She hit her head and bruised her knees as she rolled on the grass._

 

_Her mama, having seen her from the living room window, shouted in worry and frustration. Her papa made his way to her fallen form, picking her up while checking her wounds._

 

_She cried as a man examined her head._

 

* * *

 

They don’t let her sleep. 

 

* * *

 

_She was seven when she got knocked down for the first time. She wanted a chance to prove herself, asked again and again until they let her._

 

_Eager to make them proud, she trained while her guardians watched, yet her carelessness led to her misplacing her step, her ankle twisting awkwardly—painfully—beneath her. She hit her head against the wall and bruised her knees as she slammed onto the hardwood floor._

 

_The woman shouted in frustration and disappointment. The man pulled her upright, a frown marring his features._

 

_She blinked away her tears as they told her to try again._

 

* * *

They feed her enough to keep her alive. Starve her when she gets difficult. 

 

There are moments she forgets their names, moments when she forgets her own. 

 

* * *

_She was eight when she got knocked down for the first time. They had told her it was time she proved herself._

 

_Fear of failure made her train furiously while her guardians watched, yet a second of carelessness was all it took for her to misplace her step, her ankle twisting awkwardly—painfully—beneath her. Something hard slams against the side of her head, strong enough to throw her down to the floor._

 

_The woman hissed in disappointment. The man pulled her upright, dead eyes staring into hers._

 

_She did not cry._

 

* * *

 

It takes them three days to make her beg for her life; four to make her doubt everything she’s ever believed in.

 

It’s on the fifth day, as they strapped her on a metal chair, that Darcy Lewis begs to die.

 

* * *

 

_She couldn't remember how old she when she started her training. The woman said it was time to prove herself._

 

_She trained furiously while they watched, yet a second was all it took for her to misplace her step. A foot slams against the side of her head, knocking her down to the floor._

 

_The woman said nothing, but her eyes conveyed her disgust. The soldier pulled her upright, dead eyes staring into hers._

 

_The ordered her to try again._

 

* * *

 

They were waiting for something. She didn’t know what; her mind refusing to clear amidst the pain. 

 

It terrified her—with whatever feeling she had left, curled up against the concrete wall of her cell. The lights were too bright, the floor, too cold. Exhaustion and starvation pulling at her strength. Her hope flickering like a dying flame.

 

But it was better than the alternative. Fear raced up her spine as horrid memories rushed forth. The Chair, they called it. How many hours had she spent strapped down, unable to move, unable to do anything but scream?

 

The door slams open and she flinches. It must have been less than a few hours since they left her last. 

 

The man who slapped her grins as he dragged her roughly off the ground. His fingers touching parts of her she was powerless to stop. 

 

Darcy  never knew she could hate someone as much. Then again, the past days have made her realize how much she didn’t know. How cruel people could be. How sinister her thoughts could become.

 

He shoves her in the middle of an open room, weapons littered everywhere—on the floor, hanging from concrete walls. Men dressed in black stood around her, looming, all clutching knives and batons of their own.

 

_This is it_ , she thinks. _This is where I die._

 

Above them, behind thick glass, stood her tormentor, dressed to the nines for her execution. 

 

It makes her sick with rage.

 

He smiles and waves his hand.

 

A second was all it took.

 

The first punch throws her down before she could do anything. The rest converge on her fallen form like vultures, kicking and punching until she breaks and bleeds. 

 

They pull away when her fight leaves her, lying prone on the floor. 

 

She is drowning, all senses dulled as if submerged in water, lungs gasping for breath, arms weighted down by strong tides. 

 

_This is it._

 

_Get up!_ Someone shouts in her ear. _Get up!_ Another voice said. _Get up!_

 

A part of her wants to refuse. _No more_ , she cries. _No more._

 

_Stoyat’! (Stand!) Get up! Sestra (sister), GET UP!_

 

Her arms tremble as she pushes up, chest protesting from the exertion. She manages to get on her knees, body slumped to one side, barely keeping upright. 

 

_Stoyat’, Sestra! (Stand, sister!) Stoyat’! (Stand!)_

 

She sends a defiant glare to the spectators above. 

 

The man salutes her before turning away.

 

A baton slams against the side of her head.

 

* * *

_They were too young when they started. They said it was to make them better, more effective, that it was time to prove herself._

 

_She fought as they watched. Yet a second was all it took for a foot to slam against the side of her head, throwing her to the floor._

 

_The woman hissed in disappointment. The soldier pulled her upright, dead eyes staring into hers._

 

_A red star on a metal arm._

 

* * *

Darcy Lewis disappears.

 

* * *

_Sdelay eto! (Do it!) Pozhaluysta… (Please…) Sestra… (Sister…)_

 

* * *

There is nothing but the stillness of disfigured corpses.

 

She stands on a red sea, covered in blood and sweat; the smell of decomposing flesh permeating the air. Her blades fall on the floor with a clatter. Her ears ring as a voice calls out to her, drifting farther and farther away. 

 

She cries, though she doesn’t understand why. 

 

“Prosti,” (I’m sorry) she mumbles, again and again, “prosti…”, until her vision fades to black.

 

_No more_ , she cries. _No more._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! Feedback would be greatly appreciated <3 Chapter 9 is on its way, but I make no promises when it'll get here. Hope y'all are doing well!


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